


Strategy

by TheGiantSquid



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fluff, Not Epilogue Compliant, Post-War, Romance, The Quidditch Pitch: Eternity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-28
Updated: 2009-01-28
Packaged: 2018-10-26 07:49:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10782597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGiantSquid/pseuds/TheGiantSquid
Summary: Strategy: a long term plan of action designed to achieve a particular goal, be it to obtain job security or a particular love interest with red hair and freckles.





	Strategy

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

Written for [](http://shutupwench.livejournal.com/profile)[**shutupwench**](http://shutupwench.livejournal.com/) in the recent [](http://community.livejournal.com/ron_draco/profile)[**ron_draco**](http://community.livejournal.com/ron_draco/) fic fest. Major thanks to my wonderful, awesome beta, [](http://attilatehbun.livejournal.com/profile)[**attilatehbun**](http://attilatehbun.livejournal.com/) :)

Ron stared down at the little men and women running back and forth across the grassy field. Biting his lip, Ron carefully plucked one of the little men off the grass and placed him gently onto a hill nearby. The man shook his fist at Ron, then immediately began fighting off another man in black.   
  
Near the stream, a woman was crouching in the bushes, ready to attack. Another man in black was creeping by when the woman jumped suddenly and tackled the man to the ground. Ron grinned triumphantly for a moment, then scowled as he watched the two miniature figures begin to snog.   
  
“Stop that,” said Ron, frowning. The little couple ignored him and continued snogging. Grumbling, Ron tapped his wand against the base of the tiny diorama and all the figures froze instantly. Leaning back in his chair, Ron surveyed the scene before him; he noticed a large contingency of black figures had been preparing to make a run for the other side’s base of operations by concealing themselves in the tiny woods. Not only had the little witches and wizards failed to notice this, but so had Ron.   
  
With another grunt of frustration, Ron tapped his wand again, and all the white figures moved to one side of the board, and the black to another. He’d have to work out another plan of attack, and soon. The Aurors were planning a raid on a Death Eater stronghold this weekend and they needed Ron and his partner to come up with the best way into the area. So far, Ron had tested nearly twenty scenarios, and they had all resulted in the deaths of the miniature Aurors.   
  
“Fuck,” muttered Ron, burying his face in his hands.   
  
“No thanks,” said a truly annoying voice behind him. Ron groaned and dropped his hands; his head landed with a loud thud onto his desk, crushing the tiny hill of the diorama.  
  
“Don’t be so dramatic,” said Draco Malfoy, Ron’s strategy partner and general bane of Ron’s existence. “We still have plenty of time.”  
  
Ron felt his desk shift, and he peeked to his right to see Malfoy perched on the desk, legs crossed, inspecting his nailbeds.   
  
“Two days,” said Ron, feeling grumpy. “We have two days to come up with a strategy that doesn’t get the entire Auror department eviscerated by thirty aging and severely-in-denial Death Eaters.”   
  
Malfoy exhaled noisily and rolled his eyes. He often did that around Ron. “First off, Weasley, need I remind you we’re not the only strategy team working on this?”   
  
“But if we get this right, we’ll be the primary team for the Aurors!” Ron interrupted. He and Malfoy were one of six strategy teams used by the Aurors, and if they solved this dilemma first, they would be the principal team chosen by the Aurors for the next five years. Job security, higher pay, and a chance to work with Harry again, Ron thought with a sigh. Even if the job did come with Malfoy.   
  
Ron sighed louder, and Malfoy picked up Ron’s copy of the _Daily Prophet_ and slapped him over the head with it.   
  
“Ow!” said Ron, rubbing the top of his head. “What was that for?”   
  
Malfoy hopped off Ron’s desk and crossed his arms. “You need to stop daydreaming,” he snapped, “and start figuring things out. Now that I’m back, we can work this out together. And maybe then you will mercifully stop _sighing_. My God, it’s annoying.”   
  
“ _You’re_ annoying,” said Ron lamely.   
  
“Good one.”   
  
“Fuck off.”   
  
Malfoy chuckled, in a way that was a little too maniacal for Ron’s liking, then strode over to the other side of the cubicle and gracefully lowered himself into his chair. He could hear Malfoy begin scribbling away on parchment, working on his own strategy. Malfoy liked writing everything down, whereas Ron preferred to watch it play out on a diorama while dictating to a quill. Together, they made a surprisingly good team, much to Ron’s chagrin.   
  
After his accident a few years ago, involving an incident with a rogue Death Eater, a Bludger, and the giant squid, Ron’s right leg was never the same; although Mad-Eye Moody had been able to be an Auror with a fake eye, half a leg, and no nose, the rules throughout the department had changed drastically, and Ron could no longer perform his duties without endangering the life of his partner, Harry. Ron had to retire; it had been devastating.   
  
For two years, Ron worked at George’s shop, ringing up customers, stocking the shelves, and generally being a miserable human being. After one particularly bad fight with George—and a well-aimed hex that turned Ron’s skin orange—Ron was stomping around the shop, scaring off all the customers, when Draco Malfoy stepped through the door.   
  
Not feeling very magnanimous that day (or any day before that, really), Ron shoved Malfoy out of the shop. Malfoy just came back the next day. And the next. And the day after that, until Ron’s curiosity finally overcame his anger and bitterness.   
  
“I have a proposal for you,” replied Malfoy to Ron’s not so delicately shouted question of what the ever bloody fuck was Malfoy doing there.   
  
Ron gritted his teeth. “What could you possibly have to offer me?”   
  
Malfoy raised an eyebrow in a way that would become very familiar to Ron. “A job with the Aurors.”   
  
That shut Ron up. For a moment. Then they began to argue, and Ron learned about the newly formed strategy division of the Aurors, and that Malfoy was there to recruit Ron. Even a year later, Ron still can’t believe that Malfoy had specifically asked for him, a Weasley. He looked down at the tiny people running around in the diorama when a thought suddenly hit him. Ron felt a flush creep up his neck and slid his gaze over to Malfoy, who was still furiously writing away.   
  
“Maybe we should get together tonight,” said Ron. Malfoy stopped writing, and went still. “To work on the strategy,” he added uselessly.  
  
He watched Malfoy bite his lip; Ron could almost see the wheels turning in his head. Finally, Malfoy began writing again. “I don’t think that will be necessary,” he said, and Ron felt his stomach sink in disappointment.   
  
Malfoy glanced up and gave Ron a smirk. “Working on the strategy, I mean,” he said, “seeing as I just solved it. We can get together to celebrate.”   
  
Ron’s heart began to pound. “Er, we don’t need to celebrate—”  
  
“Of course we do,” said Malfoy, preening as he presented his notes to Ron, eyes gleaming with accomplishment and mischief.   
  
“All right,” said Ron tentatively, holding out his hand for the parchment, “but only if it works.”  
  
Malfoy smirked. “Oh, it will.”   
  
~*~   
  
And it did work, at least on the diorama. An hour later, Ron and Malfoy had persuaded (or ordered, in Malfoy's case) several Auror trainees to simulate the strategy in one of the training rooms. After working out some kinks, Ron and Malfoy proudly presented their strategy before Gawain Robards, head of the Aurors, and the rest of the department. Robards gave a grunt and nodded gravely, which meant he was pleased. Harry threw Ron and Malfoy a thumbs-up before he disappeared, along with other top Aurors, into Robards’ office.   
  
Ron and Malfoy stared at the closed door, sharing an awkward moment, before Malfoy said, “I’ll be over at your place at seven. Please remember to clean before I get there, if it’s not too much trouble.”   
  
“My flat’s always clean,” said Ron, shoving his hands in his pockets.  
  
Malfoy snorted. “Because of your mother, I’m sure.”  
  
Ron shoved Malfoy, who threw his head back and laughed. He gave Ron a cocky grin, then turned to leave. Ron watched him go, chest heaving.  
  
Malfoy didn’t return to his desk for the rest of the day. Ron assumed he went home, as Malfoy often did when his work was done and yet somehow never resulted in Malfoy’s termination from the department. Malfoy was lazier than Ron ever could hope to be, and—when Ron was really drunk—an inspiration. Throughout the afternoon, Ron occupied his time by doodling on scratch pieces of parchment, jiggling his good leg up and down, and practicing the art of sleeping with one’s eyes open.   
  
Harry mercifully showed up about fifteen minutes before the end of the day and dragged Ron down to the Leaky Cauldron for a drink.   
  
The tavern was packed, but they managed to find a small table in the back, away from nosy strangers itching for Harry and Ron’s autographs. They sat in comfortable silence for a while, and Ron watched with raised eyebrows as Harry downed his second shot of firewhisky.   
  
“Thirsty?” said Ron as he sipped at his beer. The noise in the Leaky had risen to a dull roar. Behind the counter, Hannah Abbot was dashing back and forth in an attempt to fill people’s orders.   
  
Harry shot him a look. “Stressed about the raid,” he muttered to the table. He gestured to a waitress for another shot. A moment later, the woman came hurrying over to the table and poured Harry another round, blushing furiously.   
  
Ron shifted in his chair. He wasn’t used to seeing Harry stressed out about his job. It didn't happen very often. Harry was the best Auror in the entire department, possibly ever, and there were rumors he was going to take over for Robards in a few years.   
  
After taking another gulp of his drink, Ron fiddled with his keys and said, “What’s going on, mate?”   
  
Harry let out a long breath and stared out into the tavern. A few moments passed, and then he turned back towards Ron. “If this raid is successful on Saturday,” he said in a low voice, “Robards is going to retire and I’m to take his place.”   
  
Ron’s jaw dropped. “Bloody hell, Harry! You’re not even thirty yet!” he said, astonished. “That’ll make you the youngest department head in the history of the Ministry!”  
  
Harry shook his head and chuckled softly. “How the hell do you know that?”   
  
“Hermione,” said Ron. “Isn't it obvious? The girl never shuts up. Anyway, mate, this is amazing!” He laughed and took a swig of beer. “Completely deserved, of course,” Ron added. “Does Ginny know?”   
  
A loud snort was all the answer Ron got. He peered at Harry, and when Harry didn’t further elaborate, Ron punched him in the arm. “Mate What the hell is going on with you?”   
  
Harry chewed on his lower lip as he surveyed the room, then threw up a _Muffliato_ charm. “You can’t tell anyone,” he said in the voice Harry liked to use when interrogating suspects, although the puppy dog eyes kind of ruined the effect.   
  
Ron raised his hands and shook his head. “Not a soul, mate.”   
  
“No one,” Harry stressed. “Not Hermione, and especially not Malfoy.”   
  
“Why the hell would I tell Malfoy, of all people?” said Ron incredulously.  
  
“Just promise.”  
  
“Merlin, Harry, I swear I won’t tell anyone.”   
  
Harry sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, skewing his glasses. “All right,” he said, leaning in. “After the season is over, Ginny won’t be returning to the Harpies.”   
  
Ron frowned. Ginny loved being a Chaser. The girl never shut up about how much she loved her job and how happy she was and by that point Ron usually stopped listening. “Why is she quitting?” he asked. “You didn’t tell her to quit, did you?” he added dangerously as he picked up his beer and took a sip.   
  
“ _No_. She’s pregnant,” said Harry, looking both horrified and elated at once. With a snort, Ron’s beer flew out of his nose.  
  
~*~  
  
Ron Apparated into his flat with a dull pop, wincing as he landed on his bad leg. His living room was dark and quiet. It was after seven, but Malfoy was notoriously late for everything, so Ron wasn’t too concerned. He wondered idly what how Malfoy was intending to celebrate their victorious strategy...thing, and...he lost his train of thought. Merlin, he was drunk.  
  
He limped into the kitchen, letting out a hiss every time he moved his right leg. It was really killing him today—too much time standing, and he'd skipped his therapy for the past two nights while he'd been working on the strategy. Another sharp pain shot through his leg and Ron let out a hiss of frustration. If he wanted the pain to ease, he’d have to take a potion; Ron didn’t want to be drunk around Malfoy, though—Ron was a notorious blabbermouth when intoxicated, and there were too many things he didn’t want Malfoy to know—and pain potions were dangerous when mixed with hangover cures.  
  
There was a loud whooshing noise from the living room, signaling the arrival of someone via Floo, and a moment later Malfoy’s voice carried into the kitchen.  
  
“Weasley, get out here, I’ve got curry, which I hate but you love, and thus I shall endure the displeasure of eating because for whatever reason I thought we could eat that tonight, especially since we had Thai last week, and I know you hate that, and...”  
  
As Malfoy continued chattering nonsensically, Ron’s head began to pound, and he made the decision to take the hangover potion. He had some salve he could rub on his leg later, after Malfoy left, that would ease the pain.  
  
The potion burned going down, but it was worth it as a moment later, the cobwebs in Ron’s head were clearing and the pounding had stopped. Malfoy was still talking—a talent, really—and after taking one more deep breath, went to join him in the living room.  
  
“There you are,” said Malfoy, as he finished setting up the food on Ron’s multi-colored coffee table, donated to him by Great-Aunt Muriel after Ron had come out to the family in a drunken confession. “Do you have anything to drink that doesn’t have the word ‘beer’ in it?”  
  
Ron surveyed the table, his stomach rumbling. “Er, I have water.”  
  
Malfoy sighed in an overly-dramatic way. “That will do, I suppose,” he said. “In a tall glass, please, with ice.”  
  
“All right,” said Ron, since arguing with Malfoy would take longer than just getting the damn water himself, and turned to head back into the kitchen.  
  
“And some napkins!” added Malfoy. “The cloth kind, none of that paper nonsense.”  
  
Ron sighed. It was going to be a long night.  
  
~*~  
  
“...and then I said to him, ‘If you don’t remove this pathetic excuse of a bisque from this table immediately, I shall pour it over your head.’” Malfoy laughed and shook his head. “You should have seen his face. So sad. And then he started crying, which, honestly, who wants salty tears tainting one’s food? So I told him to kindly step away from the table and continue crying in the corner because Mother always told me, never salt the soup. And that’s when the management told me to leave. I can assure you that restaurant will never have the honor of serving me again.”  
  
Malfoy took a deep breath and grinned at Ron, who nodded, bewildered. “Yeah, it, ah...sounds like a place I wouldn’t want to go to, either.”  
  
“I agree,” said Malfoy, his mouth full of curry. “It was awful, Weasley, truly awful. So what are you doing this weekend?”  
  
Ron, who’d had a fork full of curry on the way to his mouth, froze. “I—what?”  
  
“This weekend,” said Malfoy casually. “There’s a Quidditch game between the Falcons and Puddlemere. Box seats. You interested in going?”  
  
Some rice fell off Ron’s fork and plopped down onto his plate. “With you?” was all he could think to say.  
  
Malfoy leaned back into his chair and began picking at his nails. “I have an extra ticket, yes, and I wouldn’t want it to go to waste, so I thought I’d ask you.” Malfoy raised his eyebrows, looking cool and confident, but Ron couldn’t help but notice the slight flush on his cheeks.  
  
Ron bit his lip and scratched the back of his neck. “Er. Yeah. That’ll be great.”  
  
Malfoy smiled widely, teeth gleaming in the firelight. “Excellent,” he said. “Game starts at noon. I’ll come by a quarter till to pick you up, and then we can Apparate to the stadium.”  
  
“Sounds good,” said Ron. Malfoy beamed and resumed picking at his dinner. Ron, on the other hand, began to panic.  
  
~*~  
  
Hermione cocked her head to the side, hands on hips, then shook her head. “No, no, this won’t do at all,” she said, and began forcibly pulling the jumper off Ron.  
  
“I like this jumper,” he protested, and Hermione smacked him. “Ow,” he muttered. There was no arguing with her sometimes (ever, really), especially when it concerned Ron’s love life—or lack thereof.  
  
“You need to look nice,” said Hermione, rummaging through Ron’s wardrobe the Saturday of Ron and Malfoy’s Quidditch outing...thing that Ron wasn’t calling a date, but he hoped was one nonetheless. “This is the first time you’ve spent alone time with Malfoy and—”  
  
“That’s not true,” said Ron, frowning. “We’re alone loads of times.”  
  
“But it’s always work related,” said Hermione, giving him a pointed look, then throwing a blue shirt at him. “Try that one. He specifically asked you to join him. If that’s not a date, I don’t know what is.”  
  
Ron toed at his carpet, fighting the blush rising up his neck. He didn’t like to think of it as a date. That would be putting too much pressure on the whole thing, and Ron really hated pressure. It made him sweat and stutter and trip over invisible things.  
  
“It’s probably not a date,” said Ron as he pulled on the shirt. “Maybe he really didn’t have anyone else to go with.”  
  
“Oh, Ron,” said Hermione with a sigh. “Of course it’s a date. Now stop arguing with me.” With a nod, Hermione declared the blue shirt a success, especially when partnered with a pair of jeans Ron hardly ever wore because they were a little tight (“In all the right places,” Hermione had said with a wink).  
  
Hermione covered her mouth with her hand and gave him a watery smile. “You look great. He won’t be able to resist.”  
  
“Hermione,” Ron muttered, embarrassed.  
  
“All right, I’m leaving,” she said, still grinning. “Have fun, and just be yourself.”  
  
After talking his ear off for another twenty minutes, Ron was finally able to push Hermione out the door just before Malfoy Flooed into his flat, looking quite handsome himself.  
  
Brushing the soot off his trousers, Malfoy gave Ron a once over, then said, “It’s a bit dreary out. I’d bring a cloak, to keep the rain off until we get to the seats.”  
  
“Okay,” said Ron, suddenly wishing he had a cloak that wasn’t ten years old, and threw it over his shoulders. “I’m ready.”  
  
Malfoy held out his arm. Ron stared at it. “I’ll Apparate us there,” said Malfoy.  
  
“Right.” Taking a deep breath, Ron took Malfoy’s arm and together they disappeared from the flat.  
  
~*~  
  
“Did you see what Wood did to that Chaser?” shouted Ron over the roar of the crowd. Not only had Puddlemere won, they had flattened the Falcons three-hundred to sixty, and the home crowd was still going mad. Beside him, Malfoy was grinning ear to ear, his face flushed and hair a mess. Ron bit his lip and stared for as long as he could before turning away. He didn’t want to get caught staring.  
  
About thirty minutes later, the entire Puddlemere team made its way up to the box seats to shake hands with team owners and other ‘important people’. Ron was beside himself, and managed to get the autographs of nearly all the players, including Oliver Wood (who, upon seeing Ron, gave a giant whoop and hugged him tight).  
  
After a while, though, Ron’s leg began to get the best of him, and Malfoy declared to the room that they were leaving. For its part, the room did not seem to care much, and they left unhindered.   
  
“That was so amazing,” said Ron, still flying high from the game and meeting the players. Even though his leg was killing him, Ron couldn’t find it in himself to care. He’d had a great time, and it was all thanks to Malfoy.  
  
Beside him, Malfoy was walking along quietly towards the Apparation spot. Ron watched him for a moment, then shoved his hands in his pockets. It had stopped raining a while ago, but the night air was cool and Ron was grateful that Malfoy had suggested he take his cloak.  
  
They arrived at the Apparation point and then stood staring at each other. Ron shifted his weight onto his good leg and coughed. “Listen, Malfoy,” he began, and Malfoy began inspecting his nails. “Thank you. For, er, for asking me to come with you. I had a great time. Really.”  
  
Malfoy gazed at his nails a little longer, then dropped his hands. “Weasley, why do you think I invited you to join me?”  
  
That wasn’t quite what Ron was expecting him to say. In fact, Ron was hoping they wouldn’t have to say anything else at all and just get straight to the snogging. “Er. You had an extra ticket?” _No! No! You idiot, don’t say that!_ shouted a voice inside Ron’s head that sounded remarkably like Hermione.  
  
Malfoy’s mouth thinned dangerously. Panicking, Ron blurted, “But I had hoped it was a date.”  
  
Two pink spots appeared on Malfoy’s cheeks. He cleared his throat and said, “That’s what I intended.”  
  
“Oh,” said Ron. His heart was beating so loud, he was sure Malfoy could hear it. Ron couldn’t fight the smile that suddenly bloomed on his face, and feeling bold, he leaned in and kissed Malfoy softly on the lips.  
  
And Malfoy grabbed the back of Ron’s head and pulled him flush against his body, deepening the kiss. Ron moaned and wrapped his long arms around Malfoy, letting one of his hands rest on Malfoy’s arse. Malfoy laughed into Ron’s mouth. “Gryffindors,” he murmured. “So predictable.”  
  
Ron grinned, and began nibbling at Malfoy’s neck. “You like it,” he said softly. Malfoy snorted, then moaned when Ron found a particularly nice spot.  
  
“Ahem.”  
  
Ron and Malfoy stilled. Peering around Malfoy, Ron saw a witch, wand in hand, tapping her foot and giving them a look of severe disapproval. At her knees were two small children, giggling into their fists.  
  
Turning towards Malfoy, Ron mumbled, “My place?” Malfoy nodded quickly, and a second later Ron had Disapparated them from the Quidditch stadium.  
  
They arrived at Ron’s with a loud crack and immediately tumbled into the sofa.  
  
“Maybe we should take this slowly,” said Ron as Malfoy wrestled with the clasp of Ron’s cloak. “You know, date a little. Wait to, er, do things.”  
  
“Waiting’s overrated,” said Malfoy, grinding his erection into Ron, who agreed at once. Malfoy began working on the buttons of Ron’s shirt as Ron attempted to shove his hand down Malfoy’s trousers.  
  
“Who.”  
  
Ron blinked and paused. “Who what?”  
  
Malfoy glanced up from where he’d been licking one of Ron’s nipples and said, “What?”  
  
“Who.”  
  
Malfoy and Ron turned towards the sound and discovered a large, unfamiliar owl sitting on Ron’s mantel. “Who,” it said, and stuck out its leg, revealing a small parchment.  
  
“Is that your owl?” asked Ron, and Malfoy shook his head.   
  
“No, I’ve never seen it before.” Malfoy stood up and walked over to the mantel, but when he tried to get the parchment, the owl pecked at his fingers. Malfoy glared at it, then said to Ron, “The note must be for you.”  
  
With a frustrated sigh, Ron hauled himself off the sofa and made his way over to the dumb bird. “Well, what is it, then?” he said, unfurling the paper and beginning to read. “Did George manage to blow up the shop again? Because if he did—”  
  
Ron stopped and inhaled sharply.  
  
“What is it?” said Malfoy, trying to see the parchment around Ron. “What’s the matter?”  
  
All at once, the blood drained from Ron’s face and he held the note out to Malfoy with shaking hands. “It’s Harry,” he said. “There was an accident at the raid. He’s been injured. He’s at St. Mungo’s in critical condition.”  
  
~*~  
  
Ron had never been a patient man. He’d certainly matured over the years (no matter what Hermione said), but patience had never been one of his virtues. Waiting on news about Harry...well, that was killing him.  
  
Ginny was a mess. She sat across from Ron curled up in one of the waiting room chairs, eyes bloodshot and constantly on the verge of tears. Hermione and Luna sat on either side of her, holding her hands. George and a very pregnant Angelina sat in one corner, whispering amongst themselves; Bill and Percy sat in another, talking hurriedly with Ron’s mum and dad. Ron assumed Fleur and Audrey were at home watching the kids. Mrs. Tonks and Teddy had been by a few hours ago, but Teddy had become stressed and they had eventually left, promising to come back as soon as Harry was awake.  
  
And beside Ron sat Malfoy. Despite the stares and dirty looks some of Ron’s brothers had throw at Malfoy, he sat tall and unfazed for over five hours.  
  
“You don’t have to come,” Ron had said to him after he’d read the letter.  
  
Malfoy had looked at him. “Do you want me to be there?”  
  
Ron had merely gripped Malfoy’s hand, and that had been all they had said to each other since.  
  
Now they waited on news, any news, about Harry’s condition. Both Minister Shacklebolt and Auror Robards had given them a brief overview of the mission—it had been a success, so to speak, but a unknown spell protecting the property had hit Harry, and when they weren’t able to wake him up in the field, they rushed him to the hospital.  
  
Almost at once, all the stress and exhaustion caught up with Ron. He yawned widely and tried to stretch out his bad leg at best he could.  
  
Leaning in, Malfoy said in an undertone, “We can probably find some potion to help with your leg, what with being in a hospital and all.”  
  
“No,” said Ron, shaking his head. “I don’t want to be anywhere else but here when Harry wakes up.”  
  
“Okay,” said Malfoy, and began gnawing on his fingers. “I can go back to your flat to get some, then. Or just go get you some coffee.”  
  
Ron inhaled and ran a hand over his face. “Thank you,” he mumbled. “But I’d rather you stayed here, too.”  
  
Malfoy licked his lips and nodded. “Okay. Okay.”  
  
“Mrs. Potter?”  
  
Everyone’s head snapped up at once to find an older man dressed in lime-green robes. Ginny gave out a soft cry and stood. “Is he all right?” she asked, hugging her abdomen. The Healer walked across the room and took Ginny’s hands in his own.  
  
“He’s going to make a full recovery,” said the Healer.  
  
Ron burst into tears.  
  
~*~  
  
“You do realize you’re never going to live that down, don’t you?” said Malfoy a few nights later as he and Ron lay naked in Ron’s bed.  
  
“I was stressed and tired,” said Ron, frowning. “And he’s my best friend. How else was I supposed to react?”  
  
Malfoy snorted and buried deeper under the covers. “His wife didn’t even cry.”  
  
“Shut up,” Ron muttered, attempting to steal back some of his sheets. He yelped when Malfoy kicked him with icy feet. “Bloody hell, wear some socks!”  
  
Malfoy stretched like a cat, then curled up against Ron, who sighed and settled back down onto the bed.  
  
“This is nice,” said Malfoy, voice muffled by Ron’s chest.  
  
Ron wrapped an arm around Malfoy’s shoulders and let out a contented sigh. “Yeah,” he said, smiling. “It is.”  
  
The End


End file.
